Every Woman For Herself: This hilarious romantic comedy from the Sunday Times Bestseller is the perfect spring read. Trisha AshleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
glowing in her crumpled face like stars in a net. She was about as close to a mother figure as we’d ever got, and it was comforting that night to have someone trying to mollycoddle me, even if, as predicted, she did make me drink a herbal brew that tasted as if it had been strained through an old sock.
Miss Grinch had been an absolute tower of strength, but Gloria was glorious.
Skint Old Cook, No. 1
How to Tell Your Mushy Peas from Your Pease Pudding
These two northern delicacies are easily distinguishable from each other. Mushy peas are simply, as the name suggests, dried marrowfat peas soaked overnight and then cooked until they go mushy and give off liquid. Much runnier than pease pudding, they are often served with chips or pies. The canned variety can be an interesting shade of green – try them with potatoes and gravy for an enticing mixture of colour combinations. Your dinner guests will never forget it!
Pease pudding is a solid, grey-greenish stodge, sometimes sold in little tubs. Made from split yellow peas boiled to a thick paste, it’s cheap, filling and full of fibre. For the desperately hungry and/or hard up, use it as a sandwich filling.
It tastes better than it looks, as so many regional delicacies do: after all, weren’t jellied eels once memorably described as looking like a bad cold in a bucket?
Chivvied by Em, I walked reluctantly down to Hoo House to meet Inga early next morning before all the children arrived at the nursery. I was worried that she wouldn’t take me on, and worried that she would, but I needn’t have bothered; I suppose if I had two heads or something she wouldn’t employ me, but after seeing some of the other members of the commune with their feet in the trough at breakfast, I wouldn’t bank on it.
They couldn’t know I was a murderess yet – but they might well have regarded it as a sort of minor peccadillo when they did find out.
The nursery was called Rainbow of Enlightenment, which is as close as they can get to the Japanese original. I’ve never heard of it, so it obviously didn’t take off like Steiner or Montessori.
Inga, a squat, damp, limp Scandinavian (no, they’re not all tall, blonde ice maidens) gloomily took me around the two big, square front rooms of the house that formed the nursery, pointing out the arrangement of the equipment: apparently the children have to complete a series of tasks in their right order. ‘Building the Rainbow of Endeavour to the Further Shores of Enlightenment …’ or something.
Susie, the other helper, was setting out paint pots and brushes.
‘We have sixteen childwen,’ lisped Inga, ‘including my own – Gunilla – who is in the gawden, being at one with Natuwe.’
‘Natuwe?’
‘Ja, Gunilla loves Mama Natuwe.’
‘Oh, right. Does she also love the Rainbow of Enlightenment?’
‘Gunilla is being bwought up by obsewving the behaviouw of The Gwoup. But it is also impowtant that she mixes with other childwen. She often chooses to join in with her fwiends as they complete thewe tasks.’
‘I see,’ I said, and so I did; no wonder staff didn’t stay long, if Gunilla was doing her own thing while the other children were put through their very structured hoops. I mean, I knew nothing much about nursery education, but it sounded a recipe for disaster.
Still, maybe Gunilla was a sweet little thing, and it would all work beautifully. Yes, and I’m Pollyanna and everything comes up roses.
I left just as the first children were arriving in a series of mammoth people carriers driven by Mummy or the nanny. The Rainbow must be trendy.
Inga greeted the children by name in the same gloomy tones: China, Poppy, Zoë and Josh were just a sample. I expected I’d get them all hopelessly mixed up.
‘Ah, Caitlin,’ Inga said to one little girl, her voice warming up to blood heat. ‘You awe eawly. Is Daddy hewe? I wanted to speak with him.’
‘Gone,’ Caitlin said succinctly. She was wearing a teddy-bear suit, the head, which I now saw was a hood with ears, pushed back. On her feet she wore flowered wellingtons, like a frivolous Paddington. ‘Daddy wants to be left alone, because he’s writing a play. And resting. And looking after me, while Mummy’s in a film. Then she’s going to marry Rod, and I’ve got a bridesmaid’s dress. Daddy says it makes me look like a meringue.’ She eyed me curiously, especially the limp black drapery and lace-up boots, then informed me: ‘My daddy’s a famous actor – he’s Mace North.’
‘Face North?’ I echoed, puzzled.
‘Mace North.’
‘Of course,’ I said, trying to sound impressed, which isn’t easy if you don’t watch films very often, although the name was ringing bells faintly somewhere. ‘Then I think I met him behind my cottage yesterday. I’m Charlie Rhymer, and I live at the Parsonage.’
‘I know Em. And Frost. Em gave me a gingerbread dragon with chocolate drop scales.’
‘Em’s my sister.’ And she wasn’t usually prone to like children. What was she up to?
Caitlin gave me a look of disbelief, for which I didn’t blame her. I can hardly believe I’m related to three such enormous entities myself.
‘Daddy’s frightened of Em, but I’m not.’
‘I’m suwe youw daddy isn’t fwightened of anyone!’ Inga said. ‘Wun along in; we awe neawly weady to begin.’
I took the hint and left as yet more expensive dinosaurs trundled up the drive to decant their small passengers, and as I walked home through the mushy, melting snow I tried to remember if I’d ever seen Mace North in anything (other than a red duvet).
I didn’t go to the cinema and although Matt was wont to hire DVDs, they were of the violence, sex and nastiness kind, which were not images I wanted stored in my subconscious for ever.
However, that made me think of the actor’s barbarian cheekbones, so at odds with his rather posh, mellow voice, and then I remembered where I’d seen him before: the cover of Surprise! magazine, the one Angie’d whipped away again.
Tartar blood, that was it.
When I got back to the Summer Cottage Flossie was just waking up, so I took her for the hundred-yard stroll she considered a strenuous trek, which got us as far up the track as the actor’s cottage (no sign of life) but not quite as far as the farm, although Madge waved from the doorway. Then I set to work to try to turn the cottage into a home.
It was just two rooms, really, built into the hillside, and partitioned off to provide a bed-sitting room and the usual facilities. The décor was a bit flowery – the last mistress’s taste, presumably – and if I was going to be here for any length of time I would have to paint it.
I set up my easel in the veranda, a gesture of hope, and arranged my plants around me, though there now weren’t enough of them to give me quite that being-towered-over-threateningly feeling. I’d brought the tall ones, it was just the thick jungle effect that was missing.
I would have to take a big chunk of the auction money, go to the nearest garden centre – and hope they’d deliver.
It wasn’t very warm, either. The two paraffin heaters were only there to stop the plants freezing, and they gave out a pleasant but strange smell all of their own (a bit like Walter).
I could do with some coconut matting over the stone flags, and electricity so that I could have lighting, and some heating …
Which sort of presupposed I was ever going to spend some time in there painting;